


Over the Back

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Anger, Gen, M/M, Manipulation, Truth and Lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: Summer 1996. The Plant, Sausalito, CA. Lars and Jason play a little one-on-one.





	Over the Back

**Author's Note:**

> _Over the back -- a foul committed by a player who tries to rebound the ball by pushing, moving or climbing on a player's back who is already in position to rebound the ball._

"You're still out here?"  
  
Jason's sneakers slammed onto the concrete. The basketball passed through the hoop with a  _swish_  and bounced on his foot, across the court, landing on wet grass. He turned around, one hand planted on his hip, the other rubbing a hand over his sweaty face, clearing his blurry vision.   
  
Lars leaned against the chain-link fence surrounding the basketball court, a cigarette perched between his lips, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Beside him was the stereo Jason placed earlier, his mixtape playing loud enough for him to hear it but not too loud as to disturb the peace.   
  
Lars seemed to be in a good mood, better than what he saw when he left the studio. Lars and James argued, again, over something he wasn't allowed to hear, and Lars looked ready to tear his hair out or tear James to pieces. But he left before he could figure out what they were saying. It wasn't his concern, because they said so.   
  
Jason smiled. "Yep. Like to get a few shots in before I head home. Y'know?" He walked over, snatching the ball from the grass. "Gets the stress out and all that."  
  
Lars chuckled. "I swear. You're the only person I know who is this addicted to basketball."  
  
"Dave does it." Jason squeezed the ball between his hands. Lars looked confused. "Mustaine. You didn't know? I saw a documentary about Megadeth not too long ago and when they were working on Countdown, they had basketball breaks in between songs." He turned his back to Lars, aiming another shot. "Pretty funny dude. Like, they'd be stuck, shoot hoops, go back, Symphony of Destruction --" Three-point shot. The ball rolled his way. "Bah duh bah, bah duh bah, dododo bah duh bah." Jason snatched it up, aimed again. "Then if they hit another snag, they went back out, shot hoops, go back, motherfuckin' Sweating Bullets--" Two-point shot. "Hello meee, meet the real meee. How sick is that? We should start doing that as a band. Might make the albums go faster."  
  
When he picked up the ball and turned around, Lars finished shucking off his leather jacket, dropping it on top of the stereo.   
  
"Mm." He took a generous drag of his cigarette, the end flaring amber-blue, and then flicked off to the side, hot ashes scattering. "Mind if I play?"  
  
Jason glanced at his skin-tight jeans. "If you think you can move."  
  
"I've drummed in them. Remember?" He stretched his arms out over his head, crossing the court towards him. "Molton Ice gig. It's not a problem. Besides, I think they can afford some wear and tear." He stood in front of Jason, arms flopping to his sides. "What's the rules?"  
  
"One-on-one..." He listened in to the stereo. Sepultura now -- almost at the end. "Whoever makes the most shots by the time the tape stops wins."  
  
"So that's what? Ten, fifteen minutes?"  
  
"Fifteen, maybe a bit more. Just a regular basketball period."   
  
"Alright then." Lars gave them some space and then crouched down into a defensive position, a smirk playing on his lips. "You can start. Your court first."  
  
Jason gave him a smirk back as he dribbled the ball, settling into an offensive position. "Gonna regret that."  
  
"Don't worry. I won't gloat too much when I win."  
  
"Heh. We'll see."  
  
Sepultura was still playing when Lars called for a brief time-out.  _Inquisition Symphony,_  Jason heard on the stereo.  _Forgot that was on the tape._  
  
He wiped his forearm over his face. As sweaty, tired and sore as he felt, Lars looked worse off. His hair stuck to his bright red face, sweat dripping off his chin. A heavy wet spot had formed on his back that spread from between his shoulder blades. He paced in an oval, shaking all of his limbs, rolling his neck and his shoulders around. The jeans were a big hinderance, but Lars still held his own. He was only behind by three. What Lars lacked in height, he made up for in speed and agility. The guy could jump, run faster than Jason, be aggressive on the court and block shots well. But Jason had the strength, the height and the practice over Lars. With five minutes left in the game, maybe eight, the momentum could change, but Jason felt safe in thinking he was going to win.   
  
Lars's stomach rapidly rose and fell. He swiped the dripping sweat off his chin. "How many minutes left?"  
  
"About five or eight, give or take." Jason tucked the ball under his pit, shaking his head. "Shit you're fast."  
  
"Heh. Tennis, running, hockey and football, all my life."   
  
"Really? Well, I knew about the first two, but I didn't know about the last two."  
  
Lars chuckled. "Tennis is the family heritage, running keeps me in shape, and hockey and football I just like." His pacing came to a stop. "I haven't played them in some time, really. Probably since I was last home."  
  
Sepultura finally ended. Dark Angel played and Jason nodded along to the beat. "Cool."  
  
Lars shook out his limbs one last time as he came to stand in front of Jason again. "Ready?"  
  
"Yep." He bounce-passed the ball to Lars. "Your turn."  
  
They settled into positions again, Lars on the offensive, Jason on the defensive. Lars's shot was blocked and Jason crossed the court, making a two pointer before Lars could catch up to him. He did it again, and again, until he messed up on a lay-up and Lars caught the rebound and shot a three pointer. Jason fixed the mistake and shot his own three-pointer, keeping his lead strong.  
  
When Lars dribbled forward, focus switching between Jason and the hoop, he said, "I can't believe you didn't know."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"About hockey and football. Could've sworn I told you."   
  
Lars quickly made his move, dribbling around Jason, pushing up on Jason's chest as he came near the hoop. He planted his feet, made the shot-- cursed when it hit the rim and Jason caught the rebound.   
  
Jason made an easy lay-in by the time Lars was at half-court. He bounce-passed the ball again. "I would've remembered if you told me."  
  
He caught the ball in both hands. "Hm. Must've just told James then."  
  
Jason's lips thinned into a flat line. "Of course."  
  
Lars didn't get past him. Jason stole the ball out of his hand and made a three-pointer. He did it three more times, giving him a further, solid lead. He didn't even have to try anymore. Lars was tired. It made sense why: a whole day in the studio, playing drums, fighting with James, phone calls, interviews, paperwork, and then playing basketball in jeans. But he knew Lars wouldn't forfeit. He'd see this to the end, and when it was all over and Lars lost, he'd be sore over it for posterity's sake, probably make a scene poking fun of himself, and then accept defeat, moving on with his life.   
  
Nothing bothered Lars. Nothing phased him. He didn't care about the public opinion. As social and amiable as Lars was, he wasn't weak or thin-skinned. He did his own thing, whenever, wherever, and didn't give a shit what anyone thought.  
  
 _Except James._  
  
Jason missed his next shot, and Lars caught the rebound. He didn't chase after him. He jogged to half court as Lars finished his lay-up, caught the ball and passed it his way.   
  
Lars smiled. "Getting tired?"  
  
"You're one to talk." Jason flexed his fingers around the basketball. "I thought you were going to faint a few times."  
  
"I'm fine." Lars crouched down into defensive position again, arms out and up. "Let's go."  
  
"You sure?" Jason lazily dribbled the ball. "There's no shame quitting."  
  
Lars glared. "Play."  
  
"Mm, alright. Just thought I'd give you an easy way out." He didn't fall into offensive position. He dribble to the left side of the court. "James does the same thing when we play."  
  
Lars frowned. "Yeah?"  
  
"Yep. We do it all the time. He's a stubborn piece of work." He charged forward and used his height to his advantage, making the shot. "Just doesn't give up, you know?"  
  
Lars looked at Jason's retreating back as he bent down to pick up the ball. "Yeah. Sounds like him." He walked forward and dribbled the ball. "I didn't know you and James do this regularly."  
  
Jason turned around. Lars fell into offensive position, and Jason smirked, falling into defensive. "There's a few things you don't know about me, Lars."  
  
Lars dribbled forward. "Yeah? Like what?"  
  
He waited for the right moment, waited for Lars to take a shot, before he blurted out a fake out he wanted to tell for a long time.  
  
"Like the fact I'm fucking James."  
  
The ball hit the rim and landed in the grass. Jason ate his laughter. Lars's bug-eyed expression, followed by his trip, were priceless images.   
  
He picked up the ball, turned back to Lars and his smile disappeared when he saw Lars's smile.   
  
"Since '89, right?"  
  
Jason almost dropped the ball. He quickly sobered up from his brief shock and chest-passed the ball over. "He told you?"  
  
Lars caught it easily. "Nope. You did." He chest-passed the ball back. "I assumed '89. You just confirmed it." He tilted his head to the side, hands on his hips. "Hm. Let me guess." He made a production out of his thinking, humming and hawing until Lars said, "Ah! August '89, not too long before the Seattle shows?"  
  
Jason twisted and squeezed the ball in his hands. "How the fuck did you know?"  
  
"Because I know James better than you." Lars walked to his side of the court and settled into defensive position. "The second he started hounding you on the bass, I knew it was official."  
  
Jason stepped back onto the concrete. "He hounds on everyone."  
  
"The looks helped too. So did the ass grabbing. Oh, and James needs to stop making out with you in public."  
  
Jason dribbled forward.  _Don't want him to call me on traveling, the fucker._  "When did you see those?"  
  
Lars snickered. "Ten seconds left, else the ball's mine."  
  
He charged forward, his elbow and shoulder hitting Lars's chest, as he jumped and made a shot from half-court-- and he broke into a wide grin when it went through the net.   
  
Jason's shoulder knocked into Lars's. "Pick it up."  
  
Lars wasn't phased. He fetched the ball and dribbled over to Jason's side, walking to half-court.   
  
"What can I say? I know what he'll say before he opens his mouth-- what he thinks with just a look." He stared Jason down at half-court. "And you hate that."  
  
Jason glared back. "Figured that all out yourself, huh?" He bent over, hands on his knees. "You don't know everything about him."  
  
"Sure." He dribbled around Jason. "For example, I don't know how good he sucks dick. If he does anyway." He charged forward, jumped, missed and let Jason run away with the rebound. His hands weaved behind his head. "I mean, I've never thought of him as a cocksucker." He smirked. "How does he taste?"  
  
"Why, jealous?"  
  
"Nah, curious."  
  
"So you're jealous."  
  
"You're putting words in my mouth."  
  
"Too bad it's not James's dick, right?"   
  
Lars fell silent.   
  
Jason bounce-passed the ball over. He stared Lars down, falling into position, and he waited patiently to talk until Lars went on the offensive.  
  
He blocked the first shot, but let Lars make two baskets on purpose. The man was so far behind already, he didn't want him to lose face completely. But he put some effort into his defensive. He didn't want to tip off Lars on what he was doing.  
  
They were quiet as the game went on. The last song on his mixtape came and went. Without the music, their feet on the concrete, the basketball's dribbles and their individual grunts and hisses resonated louder in the court's empty area.   
  
Lars still couldn't catch up. He couldn't come close to stopping him. He was losing energy, losing momentum, the fatigue finally hitting him, and Jason wasn't even trying at this point. His energy was still sky-high. Whatever exhaustion he felt disappeared when his second wind kicked in, and he stole the ball a few times, slapped it out of Lars's hands, made free throws and side-court shots and a hook shot. Lars wasn't going to make it, and with the music gone, Lars wasn't going to stop. He'd have to make him stop, and he knew how.  
  
"He tastes good," Jason said, after another three-pointer. "Really good." He waited for Lars to pick up the ball, and when he did: "And he fucks amazing. Feels good around my cock too."   
  
Lars dropped the ball again. Jason snickered, watching him pick it up again, go instantly on the offensive. He went into the defensive, following Lars's moves.   
  
"Surprised?" He panted hard, blocking Lars's shots. "Yeah, James is a bottom. A good one. Knows how to take dick well."   
  
Lars jumped high, shot the ball, and Jason knocked it out of his hand, dribbling ahead and making a lay-in. He caught the ball once it went through the net, turned around and rolled it across the court, back to Lars on the opposite side.   
  
"Never figured  _that_  about your best friend, huh?"   
  
The ball bounced off Lars's foot. His clenched hands flexed by his sides for a moment, and then he snatched the ball up, dribbling forward. Jason crouched into defensive position, ready to protect his court-- and then he noticed an extra shade of red on Lars's cheeks.  
  
"Oh my..." He broke out into a wide grin. "Are you blushing?"   
  
Lars's upper lip twitched.  
  
Jason laughed. "Man. I need to commemorate this. Lars Ulrich, silenced by Jason Newsted--" He smirked. "--because the image of James Hetfield actually  _moaning_  and  _begging_  to be fucked left Metallica's motormouth speechless."  
  
Lars growled under his breath, charging forward. He planted his feet a few inches away from Jason, jumped up. Jason followed the ball's path, didn't even bother with blocking it.   
  
The ball bounced on the basket's rim and flew out of bounds.   
  
Lars turned away, fist pounding on his thigh. "Shit!"  
  
Jason tutted. "Aw, too bad Lars."  
  
"You're distracting me."  
  
"With what?" He picked up the ball, wet grass chilling his hands. "Images of James on all fours, clawing at the pillows, fucking himself on my cock--"  
  
Lars whipped around. "Stop it!"  
  
"Do you want that? Fucking him?"  
  
"He's my best friend!"  
  
"That you want to fuck. Or have him fuck you." He dribbled back onto the court. "It's that obvious." He smirked. "But I have him, and you don't."   
  
When he charged forward, Lars tried his best to block his shot, but Jason gained too much leverage, had too much room to move. He made the three-pointer, a  _swish_  echoing in the silence, the net swinging back and forth like a flag waving surrender.   
  
He chuckled, following Lars's jerky movements cross the court to pick up the ball. It'd be over soon.   
  
"He told me you know. That you two shared beds, sometimes fumbled around, but he couldn't go far with you. Because you smelled. You annoyed the shit out of him. Thought that if he fucked you, it'd fuck up the band. After all, you two still go at each others throats over the stupidest shit."   
  
Lars stood in the corner of the court, a great distance away from Jason, back turned to him. He held the basketball between his hands, running his fingers over its ridged surface.  
  
"What was it last time? Oh yeah. Who drank the last Evian water bottle. For fuck's sake Lars. A water bottle! You can be so fucking petty at times." Jason shook his head. "You just provoke James to get a rile out of him and I'm sick and tired of it." He hissed. "Stay the fuck away from him. He might your best friend, but he's  _mine._ "  
  
Lars stopped moving his hands. In the silence, his soft voice carried across the court. "You're lying. James and I never did anything."  
  
Jason snorted. "Are you sure  _I'm_  the one who's lying? You're in denial about the whole thing, and hell, I don't blame you. I can imagine you had James right there in that bed and you were  _so_  close..." He snickered. "But he stopped it with you, while he begged for it from me."   
  
Lars was silent.  
  
Jason's smirk turned malicious. "I bet it pisses you off I'm with him and you're not. Is that why you stick your nose in my business all the time? Maybe to see if he came in my mouth lately? Get a taste of what you never got?"   
  
Lars's fingers twitched around the basketball.  
  
Jason tilted his head to the side. "Is that why you kiss Kirk all the time? Think James fucks him too like he fucks me?"  
  
Lars turned around, shooting a glare at Jason. "You're insane."  
  
"And you're losing the game." Jason crouched into defensive position. "Better keep your focus, Lars, or I'll have to stop it, so you can at least save some face."   
  
Lars made an offensive move that fell short of its goal. Jason knocked the ball out of his hands and scored on a lay-up again. But they didn't settled back into position again. Lars took his time dribbling across the court, and Jason waited with his arms crossed over his chest.   
  
"You know what James told me recently?"   
  
"What?"  
  
"That if he had to pick between the two of us... he'd go with me, every time."  
  
Lars's nostrils flared.  
  
Jason nodded. "Yep. You're replaceable Lars. And you know that. You've known it your whole life. You need James more than James needs you."   
  
Lars dribbled to half-court and crouched down, bouncing on the heels of his feet, aiming, focusing.   
  
"You do business, you take care of the band shit no one wants to deal with, but that's all you're good for--"   
  
He jumped high, using his whole body for leverage.   
  
Jason followed the ball's path in the air.  
  
His face fell when the ball slipped through the net.   
  
"How the..."   
  
Jason turned around and came face to face with the chuckle and the gloat he came to resent. The typical Ulrich look. Pompous, arrogant, full of himself-- the new wave of confidence patching the cracks and the dents he made earlier.   
  
"You're a really horrid liar, Jason." Lars shook his head. "Seriously. Trying to out-lie a professional liar like me? Ha."   
  
Jason ground his teeth, pursing his lips together. He turned away to pick up the ball, while Lars ran a hand over his sweaty hair, walking backwards to his side of the court.   
  
"Y'know, after thinking about it? I'm not surprised James is a bottom. Once you worm your way into Hetfield's heart, he bends over pretty fast. But man. I really didn't need the image though." His face soured. "I mean, you? Fucking James?  _Bleh._ "   
  
Jason slowly dribbled forward, staring Lars down.   
  
Lars met his stare, but his smugness gradually waned. "It's sad though. You talk about me in denial? You're one to talk." He shook his head. "I'd never hurt James as much as you are."  
  
Jason snorted. "Please. Look at all the fucking arguments you two have."  
  
"That demo tape ring any bells?"  
  
"That was the only time." Jason crouched into offensive position. "He's fine with me making music in the Chophouse."  
  
Lars went into defensive. "Papa Wheelie still gets on his nerves."  
  
"We talked about it already."  
  
"Right." He followed Jason around the court, keeping his hands up, blocking shots. And as Jason went to make a shot: "You mean sneaking off at night while James sleeps."  
  
The ball bounced off the basket's rim, landing in the grass.   
  
Jason turned to Lars, gaping. "Have you been spying on me?"  
  
"Nope." Lars turned around, smirking over his shoulder. "You just confirmed my thoughts. Again."  
  
Jason's fists shook. "You son of a bitch."   
  
"Not my fault you're too easy. Be grateful you became a bass player." Lars picked up the ball. "One minute of interrogation and I'd have you telling me everything."  
  
He turned around, facing Jason, spinning the ball in the air and catching it, repeating the motion over and over, while Jason glared, flexing his fingers.   
  
"You think you're so fucking better than everyone else. One day you're going to get the wool pulled over your eyes when you least expect it. All that attitude you carry around will screw you over and there won't be anyone there to back you up." His eyes narrowed. "Not even James."  
  
Lars shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you know what Jason?" He came forward, dribbling the ball. "If James had to decide between you and me, it's obvious who he'd go with. That's what keeps you up in the middle of the night. That's what kills you so much. No matter how much as he sucks your dick and how much you fuck him, you've only got one aspect of him, while I have the other half you need. And let's face it. Physical doesn't go far. I could find ten people out on the streets who would go on their knees for him." He closed the gap between him and Jason, hooking the ball under his pit, hands on his hips. "You're just there until time runs out."  
  
Jason smiled. "Heh. You actually believe James likes you. You haven't been listening, huh? Well I've heard all the dirty little secrets he won't tell you. He thinks you're conniving. A backstabber. All business, no heart. Once you were about the music, but not anymore. You're cold, calculating and a worthless drummer but hey, a great producer in the making." He leaned in, coming face to face with Lars, lowering his voice. "You know, James thinks you should retire. I agree with him. Face it, you're easily replaceable. You can stay your nice territorial self and own the band name, work with James' music and all, but get the hell away from the drums. There are better, talented people out there who actually take the craft seriously, unlike you. Hell, I think the only reason why James is so afraid to tell you is because he's afraid of the press backlash. We all know you can be such a bitch when you don't get your way, Lars. He's probably afraid you'll do a whole smear campaign and run the whole band into the ground with lawsuits fighting for creative control."  
  
Lars leaned in too, hissing low. "If you think I'm buying into any of that bullshit, you're more of an idiot than I initially thought."  
  
"It's the truth."  
  
"Tch. Right." Lars walked backwards away from Jason, giving them distance. "James and I have problems, but band shit isn't it."  
  
Jason rose his eyebrows. "What makes you so sure?"  
  
"It's the one thing we always agree on." He stood on the sidelines, moving the ball between his hands again. "The only thing we don't agree on..." He glanced down at the ball, rolling it between his palms. He sighed. "I might not like you Jason, but I sure as hell respect you. I'm not about to tell you to stop making music. It makes you happy, so go do it." He stopped the ball and looked back up at Jason, jaw set firm. "But if you keep hurting James in the damn process, then you're dealing with me."  
  
Jason frowned. "I'm not doing anything to him."  
  
"That's not what he's been telling me."  
  
A chill went down Jason's spine, and then he growled. "Bullshit. The only thing you two have been doing is argue."  
  
"Over you."  
  
"You're lying."  
  
Lars shook his head no. "I'm not right now."  
  
"You lie all the time. You're just jealous. You want to break us up."  
  
"You know exactly what you are doing to him and I don't like it."  
  
"I haven't done anything!"  
  
"The demo tape, Papa Wheelie--"  
  
"That's  _my_  music," Jason hissed. "I have a right to play my music."  
  
"And I respect that." Lars grit his teeth. "But if you knew him,  _really_  knew him, then you'd know why that bothers him so much."  
  
"Yeah." Jason crossed his arms over his chest. "He's territorial, selfish and doesn't like it that I'm actually independent of him."  
  
Lars rolled his eyes. "Okay." He pointed at Jason. " _That_  is what's pissing me off."  
  
"What? That I'm saying the truth?"  
  
"That you are so blinded by your own fucking agenda, you're missing the big fucking picture here--James _matters_." He shook his head, the disbelief coming off in waves. "How can you say you know him so well when you need to have shit spelled out for you?"  
  
"Okay then, since  _you_  know him so well--"  
  
"I'm not going to help you." Lars dribbled the ball again, leaving the sidelines.   
  
"Then why don't you fuck off?"  
  
"I will. Once I win the game."  
  
Jason snorted. "I'm ahead by 20 points. The game's over."  
  
Lars smiled. "Yeah?"  
  
He charged forward.  
  
Lars went on the offensive too quick. Jason didn't have enough time to fall into a good defensive mode. His mind wasn't on the game. His feet tripped over themselves, his hands knocking down onto Lars's wrists. Foul here, foul there. But Lars paid no attention. He stayed aggressive and focused, his shoulder ramming into Jason's sternum, dribbling, circling around, keeping the ball away.  
  
They grunted, breathed hard, sneakers scraping the concrete, dirt and sweat flying. Their long shadows merged and clashed as their bodies slammed against each other.   
  
And then Lars shouted, twisted around and jumped high.   
  
Jason saw the elbow before he felt it.   
  
Pain shot from his face, centered on his nose. He heard a sickening  _crack_  and he cried out, stumbling backwards, his head bouncing off the concrete.  
  
Warm blood poured down his mouth, over his chin. The ball bounced beside his head and rolled away, out of his line of sight. He didn't hear a  _swish_  of a ball through the net or a  _twack_  of a ball hitting the rim.  
  
A heavy shadow landed over him, blocking the little light he had. Jason blinked away the fuzziness over his vision.   
  
Green eyes. Pursed lips. Fists, stiff arms, an elbow with blood stains.   
  
Lars crouched down.   
  
"I'm only saying this once."   
  
Jason groaned as Lars's strong fingers dug into his shirt and yanked him up.  
  
"He loves you. Fuck him over, and you better pray we don't go one-on-one again."   
  
Lars leaned in closer. He could taste Lars's hot breath, smell the sweat-- hear the threat, the anger and the conviction as Lars's ugly growl pierced through the fog of pain.  
  
"Next time, I won't play nice."  
  
His head slammed on the concrete again. He winced, moaned, instinctively lifting a hand up. His fingers grazed a large bump-- no blood at least.  
  
Heat rose from his face. Blood trickled into his open mouth. He rose a shaky hand and touched the cleft of his upper lip and pulled back. Three of his fingertips were soaked bright red.   
  
 _Asshole._  
  
Jason shut his eyes and groaned again, pushing himself off the concrete slowly. He grunted when he sat up, back slumped, his labored breathing coming from his dry mouth.  
  
He open his eyes and glared.  
  
Lars stood beside the stereo on the sidelines, lighting up a cigarette, the flame flickering in his hooded green eyes. He snapped the Zippo close with a flick of his wrist, pocketing it in his jeans as he took a long drag, nose and chin tilted up in the air. The ends turned bluish-amber between his fingers, and then pulled it away. Smoke trailed out his nose, through his lips, like a heavy fog.  
  
And then he smirked. The rest of the smoke came out in a large puff, like an angry bull.   
  
Neither one looked away as Lars bent down, hooked two fingers into the collar of his leather jacket and swung it over his shoulders.   
  
Lars chuckled, saluted Jason goodbye with the hand holding the cigarette, and pivoted on his heel, walking away.   
  
Jason wiped his forearm across his mouth, blood smearing on his sweaty skin. His upper lip twitched as he watched Lars disappear beyond the chain link fence, back to the studio.   
  
He forgot to take the basketball with him when he finally left the court.


End file.
